Herein there's prose and there're cons, and insights that excite, but most importantly ... there's JACK. In an effort to clear my head, I unload the random happenings in my mind into sometimes thought-provoking, but usually jovial and comical works, rated R. Welcome to the data dump from the mind of a modern-day, gay male ... who is far from ordinary.

JACK's Followers

Sunday, August 31, 2008

I love my daughter to the death - she is my princess for sure. She's quite the independent little heiffer too. She just goes on and does her own thing. This part may not surprise you: JACK is a pretty strict daddy. I mean, I refuse to repeat myself. I say what you need to do and if you don't do it - the warning is in the form of me in your face asking, "Did you not hear what I said?" That's when the fear-of-God face happens. We're getting there.

My daughter has always been bright - just brilliant. Her thought processes amaze me. But lately, I've had to adjust to her growing up - learning new things at school. And I am impressed that I've held it together as well as I have. Consider:

I pick her up from daycare, having not seen the kids for 9 days. It's great when I see them after being out of town that long. Anyway, when we get outside, she says, "Daddy, Gregory gets on my nerves." I say, "well, boys can be like that." She responds, "but he gets on my friggin' nerves!"

Now, the old JACK would've lunged at her and popped her in the mouth. Seriously, that's a little too close to the real thing. No can do. But the new JACK looks at her sternly and asks, "excuse me?!?"

My daughter tells me, "oh, I can say that now."

The new JACK says, "oh no you can't." And then she comes WIT it. "Daddy, I'm six years old now. I'm in first grade. I can say anything I want."

I am so proud of myself; she was not hospitalized. but *sigh* I have a lot of work to do with this little one.

.. and don't get me started on her TV addiction and her not understanding that now that it's the school year, the TV off limits. and especially don't get me started on the time she was on punishment and there was no TV for her at her moms house, but she went and turned the TV on anyway and balled her eyes out when she got caught because, as she told her mom, "I didn't think you would know!" Don't get me started on those things.

For now - let me just tell you what was going on ON THE INSIDE, where the old JACK was: hell the mother-fuck no, you can't say shit around this here mother fucker! The only bitch around here can say anything they want is ME, carajo! Now go do your god damn homework before I beat the shit out you.

****

Parenting has its ups and downs. That up there happened yesterday. This morning, she bestills my heart with the most interesting question I've gotten this week (and let me tell you, these mother fuckers at work are ALWAYS calling to ask me questions! - ugh!)

The mind of a child amazes me. How children process information is ingenuity at its finest and I sometimes wonder what the hell happens to us that we begin to process information like cave rats when we're adults. Like, trickle down theory ... or hearing a President say, "that's the man who tried to kill my daddy!" and then raising your fists to agree to fight a war against a country that had nothing to do with why you're mad. SMH

Anyway, I digress. My daughter knows she's bi-racial. As a matter of fact, according to her, I have White skin and she has Brown skin. Culture isn't quite an issue to her yet, but this morning she wants to know which half of her is Puerto Rican and which half of her is Bajan. She's in the back seat waving her hands across her lap, mimicing a splitting of her body in two. "Is THIS from Puerto Rico," she asks pointing to her lap. "Or is it THIS way?" she asks, waving her fingers towards her body, seemingly cutting it in half the long way.

I promise you I wanted to pull over the car, jump back there and squoosh her, and squeeze her, and kiss her and love on her and give her all the sugars she could stand while tickling her, both of us laughing up to the fabric ceiling. Just the cutest thing.

So, I explain to her that she is both Puerto Rican and Bajan mixed together. Like, you have white and you have red. And then you mix them together and then everything is pink.

"Do you understand what I mean?"

"Yes, daddy," she responds.

Wow - that really is my little princess. Even if she's trying to grow up. *mumbles about her growing up*

Folks, I was BORN to be a parent. I absolutely love being a daddy. A DADDY, you hear me? Not a father, not a sperm donor, not the giver of a child support check every pay day - but a DADDY. I love the ups, like when my girl wants to figure out which part of her body is from Barbados ... and I even love the downs, like when she wants to tell me that at 6 years old she can say anything she wants.

But all the downs are overshadowed by the inquisitive minds they possess. Tomorrow, it's all about my son. It's his birthday. *sigh* Fortunately, when I asked him to please stay 5 for the rest of his life he said. "well, I'll TRY ..."

Saturday, August 30, 2008

I was four. I was four young years old. It seems surreal to me that I was conscious of my own sexual identity at four years old, but Iwas. It probably would not have been such a big issue to me then if Iknew that all the sexual issues that intrigued me were *supposed* to intrigue me. But while I was developing an attraction to anyone and everyone who my four year old eyes found attractive, I was aware that I could only give and accept affection from girls.

One day I was at my aunt's house and she was baby-sitting some girl. So, naturally we ran around the apartment making noise like the freaks kids are. At one point, this girl started strutin' like she was doing her THANG on some runway. So, naturally, I did the same.

Tears.

It came so naturally to me to walk that runway walk but my aunt, who saw me, fucked me the fuck up for it. Through tears of complete and utter confusion I explained to her that the girl had just done the same fucking thing. Her response made me cry even harder: apparently, she could do it cuz she was a girl, but i wasn't allowed to sink my hip into my walk because *I* was a BOY.

I didn't get it. Sure, my cousins would all point little girls out to me and such, but I was only half interested, interested enough to look, but never intrigued enough to approach -- so I never did.

They pinned me as shy, my entire family did. And I learned to be the epitome of everything they thought I *should* be. Well, fuck, I got smacked around less often, and they all found the timid little blonde Puerto Rican kid endearing.

But deep down inside, I was conscious of what I was stifling -- an extrovert, a care-free spirit, and all sorts of good things to say. I so LONGED to be all those things, I knew I *was* all those things (even at four) but I gave in to some sort of family expectation of me. It was just easier.

I got away with staring at grown men simply because I was pinned as the shy one. So, staring without saying a word became a sort of trademark of mine. When I stared at women, the adults would rant and rave about the new crush I had. My silence even when questioned proved to convince them I was shy.

I wasn't shy. I was a confused little boy who when he saw an attractive heterosexual couple walk along the street couldn't decide whether to admire the man or ogle the woman. No idea. Confused, not shy.

When I stared at a woman I had a crush on, I would feel all sorts of smiley when my family caught me staring and brought my crush to light. I felt like they understood me, and since I to this very day don't really know what that feels like I would flush red. When the issue wasn't a crush and they thought it was, it pissed me off and I'd catch major attitudes with people. Yeah, sure, family, I'm shy.

When I stared at a man I had a crush on, I would get all sorts of upset that I would get reprimanded for just staring when I should have something to say instead. The issue was always about timidity, not about the crush. God, I hated that. Can't someone just bring it to light and make me flush red? Can't someone understand? Why does everyone think that what I feel is so wrong? Why does my family refuse to understand? Why is it that ...

I figured it out one day. I was in grade school by this point, and had a serious crush on a boy in my class. A stupid crush. I was always careful not to let anyone know that I stared at him, so I usually did the deed during recess. No one ever knew. And what I learned was that the answer to all those questions was all the same --people don't love you if you have crush on boys.

And I so needed love.

It was destroying me, stunting my growth as a gay man because the identity that was at the very core of me made me need to feel loved so much more often than the average kid because I was entrenched in the machismo culture. It was destroying me, stunting my maturing process because the identity that was at the very core of me wanted to be let loose, and ached for the entire world to know.

But if they knew -- they wouldn't love me.

So, I needed people to know so I could be me and feel at ease with who I was -- because who I was brought me so much joy.

But I needed not to tell because I wanted family and friends to love me.

By the time I was in fourth grade, I had already decided that I could not feel that joy that would come with coming to terms with what made me different from everyone I knew. I opted, instead, to have people like me. That was my reality - be liked or be happy.

By the time I was in fifth grade, the chamber that was where my adam's apple now is was jammed suitcase-tight with unrealeased tension. I had by the age of ten decided that I could not come to terms with who I really was. I opted to feel a love from people for who I wasn't, rather than to feel the joy that comes with telling all.

Friday, August 29, 2008

How about I'm tired if the religious right making a big fucking deal of this shit.

If you're so on the right that you're looking at this man and his family like they're from the depths of hell, then get right with God. Take your stupid, tired, greezy asses to church, hide in fear and shut the FUCK up. Pray a lot, blog less.

I've heard a retarded comparison of the 666 mark of the beast and the number of letters in Barak's full name. Aye dios, really? 6+6+6 = 18. Barak Hussein Obama has 18 letters.

Christians = Silly Fucks : same number of letters. We can play this fucking game all day, carajo.

Lee Harvey Oswald = John Wilkes Booth: same number of letters. Apparently, assassins all have 15 letters in their names. (You see how this works?)

In the end, look - if your Christianity is telling you to be this judgmental and outspoken, if you are willing to risk being wrong and offending the man in front of God and everyone ... you are likely not right with God yourself.

That's really all I'm saying. You can't be right with God and preach this nonsense.

Obama's speech at the DNC proved several things to me:

It's true that being a minority automatically means that you have to work two, three and four times as hard to get the same things as a White. And, would you look at what we can do when we actually step up to that challenge!

Michelle absolutely adores that man. As soon as he came up on stage her eyes lit up and I saw love in its purest form. You hear me? That woman LOVE that man.

Obama ain't no punk. He ain't just ready to have debates - he sayin to the Republicans, BRING IT, BITCHEZ

Bipartisan seems to be the metaphor for race. That is, when he said it's not about Red and Blue, I could plainly hear him saying it's not about Black and White.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

I can't tell you how many miles I've flown. I've used frequent flyer tickets about half a dozen times and have over 100,000K in various accounts. Work keeps me busy - and I've seen so many beautiful parts of the country. Of course, work being what it is - I usually only see the airports and the hotels, but I try to get out as much as I can. This is especially true when I go to Las Vegas - where I saw Toni Braxton's Revealed concert (I totally love her), and wasted hundreds and hundred of dollars in slot machines, and rode the Big Shot on top of the Stratosphere (never again!). Maui was just plain beautiful too, although I only had one day to really enjoy it personally. The sunset was just so beautiful.

Not so beautiful are the damn flights. And one of the things that still unnerves me is landing - because the nose is never completely in front of the tail on any landing. It's the sky's answer to yaw, and I fucking hate it. I have to regulate my breathing and sit upright in my seat and not look out the window. My sense of direction is keen, and I can tell you that I have never been on a flight that landed in a position completely parallel to the runway.

So, I've done some research on youtube (crack for internet junkies) on crosswind landings, because of that one time I landed in Indianapolis and almost got whiplash as the plane drifted sideways before it touched down. Needless to say, hitting the runway to careen at 80 mph while drifting in a direction perpendicular tot he runway is jarring. But prais God, I've not dealth with the likes of this ... yet.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

If there's one thing I have to SMH at concerning my own people is our tendency to lean toward the ridiculous. I mean, there's an underlying spiritual energy behind EVERYTHING and if you ask any first generation American Latino, several things are always true:

1) There may not be a tooth fairy, but there's a ghost that watches everything you do and if you disobey your mother, the ghost is gonna get you. Sometimes, he's known as "El Cuco"

2) The face of the virgin Mary appears supernaturally on anything from a rose petal to the face of mount rushmore

3) God always hates the neighbors for doing bad things and will "get" them - but no one discusses that we do the same bad things because we're safe. Unless you disboey your parents (see number 1)

4) Bi-polar disorder is a sexually transmitted disease akin to the clap or crabs, except with the latter two there isn't the benefit of having been fucked silly

5) If you balance a stack of pennies on your forehead, it will cure your hiccups

6) If titi dreams about it, someone in this family is about to get pregnant. And she can really foretell it. If she says she had THAT dream and no one confesses ... all the women pee on a stick the next morning.

7) If you cross your eyes, they will really, for real stay that way

8) Gay, like bi-polar disorder, is catchy. Except it's communicable like the common cold. And gay is a sure-fire way of catching bi-polar disorder

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

I promise you I would make a better candidate for President than McCain. But, Barak got me beat by a long shot. Why? Hmmmmm ...

Top ten reasons JACK can’t be President

10. Except for the completely deranged, I’d clear out all the jails and start over09. I’d declare January White History month and mandate that no one leave the house unless it snows08. If something is just plain stupid, JACK cannot refrain from raising an eyebrow and staring at you like that until you fix it07. I’d charge Bush as a War Criminal06. I’d repaint the white house some pretty shades of pastel05. Jaded would be named head of the FBI04. The new National Anthem would be “Lift Every Voice and Sing”03. Alaska’s state motto would change to ‘IN YOUR FACE, RUSSIA!’02. It would become legal for any citizen to beat the fuck out of any child molester. In fact, I think I would put them on display on the National Mall, naked and invite tourists to do with them as they please (did you hear about the couple that tried to sell sex with their 5 year old for free rent? I'd want just FIVE minutes in the oval office with them bitches)

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Saturday, August 23, 2008

My trip to Orlando was fun. Pretty much, I had something to do every night. And Tropical Storm Faye made for an interesting trip too. But even with the palm trees bending like expert Olympic gymnasts, this one mother fucker made the trip memorable. Let's call him Christian (cuz that's his name).

He's one of those people whose oblivion is written across his face. Do you know the type? The ones who really don't understand much and couldn't handle the depths of any conversation that wasn't about gossip or radio playlists? Well, that's him.

He's cute in his own right - a 22 year old gay Puerto Rican who is convinced that getting drunk and taking turns with his friends running out of the front door into the street and back in the middle of a hurricane is a good idea. Cute like that. He's a friend of my friend and my friend knows how much of an asshole JACK can be (i know, you're shocked) and he really should've known better.

Christian asks me if I had aol. Afraid that he would try to hit me up and I would eternally exist on his Buddy List, I said no. He went on to tell me how great AOL was and that everyone has it. So, I played along. "What do you mean - why's it so great?"

Apparently, you can do a lot on aol. You can "talk to people."

JACK: "How the hell you do that?"

Christian: "Well there's a window for it - and you get to pick your own icon."

Friday, August 22, 2008

I am away on business this week and all of the posts this week were written prior to my departure and scheduled for your viewing pleasure. At this point, I just wanted to remind everyone that my voice drips with venom everytime I talk about Sprint. And I know that Samsung made my phone and the battery pack, but the fact that the phone doesn't recognize the battery pack and now really lasts me less than a day on a full charge is really all Sprint's fault in my mind. And I'm not eligible to get a different phone yet. I'm somehow bound to this phone, shackled to it like a leashed dog, or like a prostitute to the headboard (you pick).

I cannot wait until Christmas - that's when two of my three phones have contracts that end ... I'm jumping ship like them rich people did off of the titanic, and locking in the representatives that answer the phones with the musicians to soothe them.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

I really don’t have many readers.I’ve tried to peruse the blogs of various LGBT bloggers and have commented there, but I think my blog has freaked them out.They’ve visited, commented once or twice and then disappeared.I think I use the word ‘nigga’ too damn much for them.But, it’s really quite like me to be in this ethereal class all of my own, where I’m Puerto Rican but don’t associate much with Puerto Ricans because I’m Black by Injection, where I’m gay but don’t associate with too many other gays because I don’t whip out rainbow scarf each Fall, where I’m from the projects but now own a home in surburbia.Whatever – so here I am a gay, Puerto Rican blogger with mainly Black, straight readers.I love me – I love ya’ – I love US.

And so as appreciation to my readers, I’ve decided to assign each of you your very own Native American Indian names.Why?Because it’s ME and I’m NOT native American and if you didn’t read the last paragraph to understand what the hell I’m doing here, then I don’t even know what to tell you.Besides, it’s funny – and you know how much I like a good laugh.At the very least, I hope I make you smile.I will start with the one, the ONLY, Jadednyer

You know I love the shit out you, right?This name is so befitting on many levels and for many reasons, chief among them being that you are the Queen Bee of the side-eye.Honey, you OWN the side eye.In fact, from now on and unto forever, no one else is allowed to give the side eye.Only you.

Stealthily navigating the brush of life, poised like the backbone of the proverbial king of the forest should be and ready to pounce on any mother fucker that wanna play stupid with your babies … lioness fits you well.That and because I originally wanted to call you Rabid Rabbit, but was afraid to list here the reasons why.*besos*

I can’t believe I’ve know you for *cough*fifteen*cough* years.You’re like the most stubborn case of scabies I’ve ever known – I just can’t seem to shake your ass.Everywhere I turn, there’s IRENE.And we weren’t even close friends in high school – but somehow, your hyper ass turns up every-fucking-where.On myspace, on blogger, in my convos with the side-eye lioness … but you’ve never fit any mold.You ever seen a fox run with get-the-hell-out-of-dodge intent?That’s Irene – always there, yet always gone too.

I have no idea who you are – so my perception may not exactly be precise.But you know how horses are always in a stable, bridled and tamed?That’s not the kind I’m referring to – your name connotes the wild kind.And the thing about wild horses is that we’re so socially programmed to assume that horses are cute, tame, polite animal that shit in convenient leather satchels that we don’t realize that they will fuck some shit up in about zero point three seconds.And I get the impression that you’re the same way.Nice, calm, unassuming, approachable … but if someone presses the right buttons, you can shift all of your weight to your front quarters and kick the life out some mother fucker.That’s my explanation, but the reality is that I want you to keep commenting on my blog and it never hurts to call a man a horse.

You don’t comment on my blog.I don’t know why.But I know that you visit and I know that you read my incessant ramblings.I’ve been at your place, and from what I gather, this name is befitting.There’s nothing you do shallowly.You don’t think shallow, you don’t feel shallow, you don’t speak shallow and you don’t express yourself shallow.Like the expanse of a deep, deep river – you flow smoothly, gently … quietly possessing enough energy to drown entire cities.That’s you – and if you don’t start commenting on my blog, I’m changing your name to Lost Compass … and we both know that name could go a LONG way.

You strike me as sensible, mature and well put together.I love how you blog about your husband and tout your relationship as being just divine.It seems you figured it out right and I bet tons of folk flock to you in search of advice.

Cute, cuddly and hyper as hell.Don’t know you very well, but that’s the impression I get.For some strange reason, there’re tons of wild rabbits in Indianapolis.They’ll hop around the lawns in search of food and no one ever really knows where they nest.You see them only when they want to be seen, but only then as a blur as they whisk away into the day with whatever prize they’ve found to bring home to the babies.All the while, just cute as hell – you don’t even notice that they’re just as dusty and wild as that squirrel that just climbed up the tree with it’s bushy tail.Somehow, the rodents are nasty – but the bunnies are just so adorable.

Almost an anomaly, but not quite, you seem to be made up of many differing components.What stands out the most to me is your being a straight black male, with swagger I suspect, and being so uncharacteristically open-minded about the right of others to be not so straight or not to possess nearly as much swagger.You have a patch for caring too much and on the other corner of this tapestry you have a patch for not giving a fuck.You simultaneously love and hate, I suspect – love life, but hate the injustices … love your siblings, but can’t stand how they are … love yourself, but get frustrated with yourself too.Either JACK is astute and right on target, or I’m a complete Quack and need to instead call you Loaded Canon because you about to put me on blast.(But be careful, “Loaded Canon” has many connotations and I might be just fine with it)

The thing about willow trees is that they grow so fucking big, reaching almost limitlessly into the sky … yet they touch the ground too.You’re smart as hell, can see pretty far ahead, but you’re also well grounded.Someone can drive a truck right into you and you’re unscathed … and someone can take a small pair of scissors and make you feel like you need to stretch to touch the floor.But don’t tell anyone – there’s a rough, barky exterior to you to camouflage your weaknesses.I mean, not that you have any – cuz you don’t.SMH.Nope.

So, there we have it – if I missed you, it’s because I’m tired of trying to be creative and I’ll get you next time.And if you do have a name above, you’ve probably noticed that I am working on making my blog interactive beyond your ability to comment.It’s your turn.What’s MY Indian name?hmmmmmm?

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

For some reason, when I was house hunting in 2000, I wanted a house on a mature lot. I wanted trees, with shade and something that looked established. The idea of a new home in one of those subdivisions where the saplings are still begin supported by posts really annoyed me. Those homes seemed so, like – I dunno – out in the open.

I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I bought a home with three GI-fucking-NORMOUS trees that freak me the fuck out during every Spring Midwestern wind storm … and that dump about 3 million tons of leaves all over my property, including on my roof in the Fall. Furthermore, it takes two hours to mow the bitch, front and back, with a self-propelled lawn mower. Don’t ask me – I have no idea why I did this.

So, I found this retired old man who makes a living from mowing lawns and keeping shrubbery sort of under control. He comes over often to maintain – although not nearly as often as I should ask him to – ask my neighbors who likely curse me for not mowing on a regular basis. They’re meticulous with the lawn and mine gets to about 8 inches before I ask old man to mow it.

Anyway, so I have this line of pine trees along the back of the property, separating me and the backyards of the neighbors on the next street. Anyway, underneath these pine trees is the best kept patch of weeds in this hemisphere. I mean, some of them are as tall as me. So, I asked old man to clear it out. I just don’t have the time, so whatever, I’ll help him pay his alimony to his ex-wife.

I came back home last week from one business trip or another and realized that he did half the work two weeks before when I was last home and never came back. There’re tree limbs and crap all over the lawn back there. So, I called him to make sure he was ok. I mean – he NEVER does half a job. Well, apparently, he’s fine … now. He left because I’ve got poison oak back there and he broke out.

I totally felt bad. I mean – I had no idea. Apparently, he came back to spray the bitches and then will return when it’s all dead to clear it out. But here’s the reason for this post: he told me he broke out pretty bad and even had it on his balls.

Someone please explain to me how a grown ass man gets up and leaves the premises because he realizes he’s breaking out from this poison oak … and he take a goddam piss before washing his hands! That shit makes no sense to me – I know that poison oak didn’t crawl up his shorts because the mother fucker doesn’t wear shorts, and poison oak isn’t that plant from Little Shop of Horrors. You can’t exactly sit there and WATCH it grow. So, the only explanation I have is that his bare hands touched his bare balls – and I refuse to consider that he was frolicking alone in the poison oak.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

I knew I was special. I just knew it. Even as a child I knew the potential in me, but knowing that it was merely a potential insulted me. I hated it, I absolutely hated it. I hated that no one could see how special I was.

Tears.

You already know that my parent's divorce affectly me very little. It was external to me, and I didn't care -- it wasn't my issue. In fact, I began to bask in their trials because I could use it as an excuse to cry. Forever.

Realization.

You can cry a lot because of a divorce. Adults in school fed me attention, and fed me attention. I knew I was different, I knew I was special, and although all the glory was given me under the guise of "child of a now-single mom," attention was *still* given to me. I loved it.

In fact, I cried everyday. All day, even. And milked the issue so badly, I was given a guidance counselor. Tears.

I didn't realize it, but all that crying was making me vulnerable. My guidance counselor was convinced that my parents' divorce was earth-shattering for me because I wouldn't look her in her face. We talked about my not being able to look at her during our sessions.

Tears.

I couldn't do it because I thought that she, with all her status, would look into my eyes and see the feeble little different boy-- she was trained to do it, after all. I was afraid she would find me out and tell my class, tell my teacher, tell my mom, tell my brother, tell my friends,tell everyone. They would all find out if this bitch were to look into my eyes. Hang down your head, kid -- Hang it LOW.

We played Tic-Tac-Toe on a wooden board with brass sleeves. The X's and O's were brass as well. I stared at them the entire time, never taking my eyes off of the non-fleshy brass that could not see in my eyes the fact that I was lying, that I was indeed different.

But I thought the brass knew. I was convinced it knew. I would think to them, and they could hear. They knew. They knew I was "different." I grew to like that weekly hour of mindless Tic-Tac-Toe game after Tic-Tac-Toe game. The X's and O's and I could silently talk about real shit, and they couldn't open their big fat mouths, if for NO other reason than they simply didn't have mouths.

My counselor was a black woman. Bald, kinda. At least that's what I considered it then. I don't recall her name - don't ask why. It took me a while to get accustomed to her because of all the prejudices instilled in me as a younger kid, but because I was staring at the brassy letter on the table, the color of her skin blended away and the soothing murmurings of her vocal cords could sooth me.

At some point during the school year, it no longer mattered that I was the only 6th grader with a counselor (trust you me, that's a good excuse to cry too), it was not an issue that no one at home cared that I was in counselling (another tear jerker), none of it mattered.

The only thing that mattered to me was meeting that woman and hearing her voice every week, even if she *was* black. The color of her skin was no longer a threat to me -- it was a comfort now. Everything about her was a comfort. I talked, she listened. She told me I hadgood things to say. She wanted to know about my week. I mattered to that bald, black woman.

She was teaching me a lot -- she had answers to each and everything I cried about. So, I would listen and know she was right. I was beginning to learn all sorts of ways to handle the things she thought were adversely affecting me, that made me cry.

At first I thought she was a fool for believing my reasons for crying (LADY! I'M FUCKING DIFFERENT) but then I decided to start filing her advice about things that weren't even issues with me in the back of my mind.

Oh and they were gonna be real; all those issues conjured up by the mind of a 10 year old would soon be realities in my life. And when they became real issues for me, I handled them well -- all because of that bald, black woman.

But at ten years old, she a fool to me -- she did nothing to tackle the real issue. There was no emotion in there -- she was a girl.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

I went to the Indiana State Fair today. The weather was perfect, a beautiful, partly cloudy 84 degrees or so. Grandma and I took the kids and she invited the 8 year old of a coworker. And if you don’t already know this, the game completely changes when the children outnumber the adults. One-on-one play just went out the window with the inclusion of a third child – I prepared myself to have to work in zones.

Across the street from the fairgrounds, behind the fairgrounds actually, is a residential neighborhood, mostly Black. These people ain’t stupid – they were charging $5 per car to park on their front lawns. I mean EVERY house was doing this. I parked there; after all, it was cheaper than the state fair parking and actually SO much closer to all the action. But I would be lying if I didn’t take every last thing of value with me.

At any rate, this child is a spoiled brat. By the time we dropped well over $100 on rides and games, I started to wind it down. She said she wanted to play one more game and I said we were done. This 8 year old responded by saying that she saw her father give us money and she wanted to use it now. Grandma gave her $10 and I told her she was crazy. Grandma’s reasoning is that since she invited she should take care of her. My response was the same: “You crazy.”

But the real reason for this post is that I want to acknowledge that I do indeed spoil my kids. I admit it. But simultaneously, I discipline them and refuse to allow them to be bratty. They are NOT spoiled brats. For instance, this child (who is White, by the way) told my daughter that she has a Nintendo DS. My daughter has been asking for one for at least 6 months, to no avail. My daughter, suddenly excited about having a discussion about a DS (it’s by far her favorite topic) asks this girl, “did you have to earn it?”

The quizzical look on this child’s face said it all. My daughter says, “you know what I mean – EARN it.” She shakes her head. My daughter says, “Grandma, will you tell her what I have to do to get a DS?” Grandma says, “no, you tell her.”

“I have to get straight A’s”

Yes, folks – my daughter is in first grade and she can have a Nintendo DS for Christmas this year if and ONLY if she does perfectly in school. Yet, the 8 year old in second grade has no idea what it means to “earn” something.

But it gets better – her dad gets here to pick up the spoiled brat. And she starts screaming at her dad, “daddy, can I sleep over! Daddy, please!” And I’m in the room like – WTF! I call out to my daughter, because this should have been discussed with me first. However, by this point, this man is in the foyer considering it. And quite frankly, I don’t blame him one fucking bit.

So, I just got punked by a 6 and 8 year old. Not to be outdone, though, I asked dad if there was anything his daughter couldn’t eat. “No, she can eat anything … well, except rat poison.”

JACK: “Oh, don’t worry – that’s only for when the kids won’t go to sleep by midnight.”

Amazingly, he STILL let his daughter spend the night. I must say I’m impressed with his ability to keep up. He said, “well, I guess it’s a good thing it’s just a blood thinner.”

JACK: “Well, I see you know a whole lot more about rat poison than I do.”

OTHER DAD: “It doesn’t really poison them, it just thins their blood to the point that the heart can’t pump it.”

I think dad punked me too. At that point, I thought it best I keep his child.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Whose Line is it Anyway has been one of my favorite shows. I used to watch it as a teenager whenever I went to my father's house for the weekend. He happened to have cable. But this here episode? OMG - there's no introduction I have that could give it justice. Just watch:

Friday, August 15, 2008

So, there I was – minding my own business.I was sitting at the Billy Goat Café in downtown Chicago, on a stool facing the window and out into the street.I sat with my coworker, silently eating the best ham and cheese omelet EVER and grunting occasionally at my coworker when her Black ass wanted to say something.I can talk a good game, yes – but when I’m THAT hungry and am enjoying a meal THAT much … I bury my face in my plate and shovel in the calories as fast as humanly possible.So, I grunt (not unlike “The Ox.”)

But then my coworker said something interesting – she pointed out that that Black Cadillac SUV just came back.Sure enough, there it was.The same SUV that had just left.The two dudes in the front seat shook hands and the passenger disembarked and jaywalked onto the other side of the street.I commented on his ridiculous style, having an untucked polo shirt over some khakis with some sneakers on, and a back pack hanging off his right hand as he crossed the street.I mean, was he being professional or no – pick one.

And then she says that she was sure it was a drug deal.I considered the situation and forgot that I was hungry like a famished orphan with a bloated belly.And I agreed.The white dude driving the Cadillac was all of 25, if he was a day – and the SUV was FULLY loaded.Right there in front of me, a sidewalk’s width away, I could see the plush leather seats through the open passenger side window and the kiddy looking White dude with curly hair cascading down from his ball cap.(Whether or not it was fitted I could not tell)My coworker nods and proceeds to eat.

I nudge her a few moments later and we stare as a second white dude (as white as the half professional/half skateboarder that just walked away into the crowd across the street) boards the Black Cadillac, holding an open bottle of beer.Yes, it’s early enough for Billy Goat’s to be serving ham and cheese omelets and this cracker is drinking.That was odd in and of itself – but right there, in front of God and EVERYONE … an exchange.The driver takes his cash, the two shake hands and the alcoholic (and druggie, apparently) disembarks and heads across the same street as the semi-skateboarder.

“mhmm,” says my co-worker is perfect Black-woman-with-an-attitude fashion and we just stare at each other.She proceeds to discuss how that if it was a Black 25 year old driving a fully loaded Cadillac SUV, the Black dude would’ve been pulled over just for driving it.But this cracker right thurrr – he’s innocuous.And then – IT HITS ME.

“Girl, the problem is that if YOU AND I were White, we’d have the license plate number and be hanging up the phone with 911 right now.”

We stare at each other dumbfoundedly, stunned at our own incompetence.We sat there watching an illegal drug deal, had all the data available to us in order to anonymously report this crime and neither one of us could even tell you if the license plates were in- or out of state.What we COULD tell you was that the driver was White, about 25, both clients were white too, the car was FLY AS FUCK, fully loaded with plush leather and that the sunroof was open.The driver’s hair was curly and his hat was on backwards.

License plate?Nothing.

It’s the epitome of the world we live in.If the roles were reversed and the White people were in the restaurant watching the minorities exchange money for drugs – the cops would’ve been called.But in this scenario – the minorities just walked away, shaking our heads, talking about how unfair the world is.

So, while we ain’t snitches – we both agree … we SO should’ve gotten all the information we needed to report these damn mother fuckers.But our instinct was not to snitch.

I’m not sorry for feeling like this – perhaps it was better this way.White on White crime is just fine with me.If the buyer was a young Black or Latino … I probably would’ve perceived it differently.But whatever … go ahead, Curly – dope up them White boys.

But I must admit – THIS drug dealer didn’t look like a user.Yet another difference between the US and the THEM.Every last mother fucking pusher in *my* community dips into his own stash.What a pity – them White people have even perfected dealing drugs!Fuckers.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

In 1998 I began to write an autobiography. Its title is the title of this blog post. I got through three chapters that April and never picked it back up. For some odd reason, I got to thinking about it again recently and thought that maybe this blog might be a good place to try it out. I figure that if you comment and tell me it's boring as fuck and to get back to the hysteria, then my having abandoned it was the right decision. If, however, I get feedback that I should continue, I'll be at a crossroads. I will have to seriously confront the reality that, much like most things in my life, I didn't follow through and should have. So, for your viewing pleasure - here's the first chapter:

***Chapter 1: Tears of Difference***

I was an emotional wreck. I'm not talking about any particular day, here -- I mean as a child, and in general. The most inconsequential things made me cry. It didn't help being the epitome of everything any malicious 5th grader could conjure up to tease some less fortunate classmate about. See, I was always Mr. Less Fortunate. Always. Mr. shortest, Mr. youngest, Mr. nerd, Mr. quiet, Mr. sissy ... You know, Mr. Less Fortunate.

My parents' divorce was just another one of those things that happened external to me. I too soon in life learned not to give a fuck about things that did not directly affect my feelings. You see, I was driven by my feelings. They were at the forefront of every one of my efforts. Simply put: I did what I *felt* like doing. So, usually, I cried.

You'd be surprised at how much attention you get as a child if you cry, especially if you do it often. What an outpouring. But the reality behind the issue that made me cry made that incessant outpouring fruitless. Adults everywhere tried to help me through each and every little thing that scarred me; no one knew that each and every time, those things were fictitious. I made them all up. How do you tell mom or dad that your everyday issue, the thing that always makes you cry is the complete and thorough understanding that you're different than everyone else? Different than them. Different than your brother. Different than your friends. Different than everything on TV. Different. Just different. How?

You don't, that's how. You bottle it all up in this secret chamber within you, a chamber that, for me, sat where my adam's apple was to be. I collected it all, bore it all, and it's only release was a good long hard cry. Anywhere. Because it didnt matter. If I was at the dinner table and was about to implode? Tears. If I was hauling my books to school and halfway through my walk that chamber within me was about to bust? Tears. Nothing mattered. Nothing. Tears. Tears. More Tears. They ran down my face with the warmth of ice and dripped off my chin, wasted. But I learned that crying was OH so therapeutic.

Even if it *was* cold.

I needed everything to be perfect, predictable. If anything was out of place, it was another reason to cry. I remember one day I sat on a stool in my mother's kitchen while my father dabbled with my hair (For a while, he was convinced he was the world's best barber). It was a nice, predictable Sunday visit from Daddy; he cut my hair. When he was done, I looked in the mirror only to find that it was wrong. It was too short, I looked like a fool, my face looked big, the kids would tease me, it wasn't what I wanted, it wasn't what I had imagined, and my mind NasCar raced through all the possible trials I would suffer as a consequence ... instant tears.

I took a bath, because it was normal to do so after a haircut, right? One problem. I sat in the tub to cry with the shower on, the drain wide open. The tub didn't fill. I let warm water pelt my face to offset the cold tears my cheeks were all too familiar with. It must have been an odd sounding shower; dad found me.

More Tears.

Tears.

Tears.

Yes, the family was convinced: the hysterical kid is crying because he doesn't like his haircut. They all told me how wonderful it looked, how much the girls would flock to me, and I had to force myself to bottle everything back up into that massive ball of bottled up fear that was eventually to choke me -- the *girls*?!? If I was to convince them it was the haircut, the accolades should suffice, I figured. But it wasn't the hair. I was different. I was DIFFERENT. Different than my own family. So different I couldn't tell them. So different I refused to be me. I simply refused to be me. No one knew who I was, and soon I was going to find out that my very own childhood facades would make even me forget who I was.

What a paradox.

Those facades defined me, proved to get me through each of my childhood days, and were my way of extracting great joys out of life.

Yet, simultaneously, those facades washed me of identity, proved to prevent me from growing up, and would eventually become a great source of misery for me.

I have to give props to my 6 year old first grader. On her way home from school this week (yes, the school year has already started here!) one of the other first graders on the bus, from another school, wonders what happened to the dinosaurs.

My daughter decides to tell her. And says that dinosaurs went to hell with all the other bad people. They don't get to go up to the sky in heaven with the good people like "us." Basically, according to my daughter, they sunk into the ground and disappeared into hell.

The child with the query didn't quite understand - and my daughter explains it this way:

You know when you put on lotion in your skin ... and it just disappears? That's how the dinosaurs sink into the ground and disappear.

Seriously, I've got a child prodigy who understands decomposition better than most. And you know she's JACK's daughter because when I asked her about it, she said

"She asked a lot of questions, like a million - and I had all the answers. She's not very smart."

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

If you've been keeping up with my blog (and if you haven't, I'm on Google Earth right now mapping out your demise) then you know that this date was a nightmare. But I definitely keep him around because, well ... he's not afraid to spend money. I admit it - it's totally shallow of me, but the shallow of me needs an outlet and in my defense I have totally confined it on HIM. So, the rest of you don't ever have to worry about shallow JACK. He's well taken care of.

So, anyway - he tells me that he bought me something. Tells me not to be scared. And tells me he hopes it's the right size. So, I suspect he bought me a ring. And for a few days, I'm totally freaking out. And I practiced how I would handle it because 1) I was totally accepting the ring and 2) I was totally not going to make a committment. So, I had to play my cards right. Especially since the night before I was to go to his place to spend the night I went out on a date.

Long story short - he asked me for the THIRD time who was the nigga I went out with last night. (I had texted him that I was going to a dinner meeting). And I told him, "His name is Luis." So, his attitude totally changes and I'm annoyed with him. And we play this game until he admits that he's jealous and that he really doesn't have a right to be because we're not together.

*insert a wipe of the brow with a sigh of relief*

Then he admits that he went out on a date with an "Adam." I shrug. "How was it?" And I'm totally in the clear at this point. I'm not upset, or angry ... but he's still jealous. Whatever. He hands me a bouquet of flowers.

FLOWERS!

Do I even APPEAR to be the type of man that's into flowers? Do any of you out there think JACK wants something ELSE to take care of? Because I don't - I have a job in Chicago where I keep an apartment, a house in Indianapolis where I go every two weeks to spend five days with my kids, a car to maintain so that it continues to make the trip ... and the last mother fucking thing I need is something else to take care of and maintain. But I'm gracious and thank him and he gets a vase and fixes it all up for me.

Good, because them bitches were gonna stay bunched up in that rubber band otherwise.

Then comes the ring - and yes, I was right. It was a ring.

But it was silver and fit only on my pinky, although he wanted it on the ring finger of my right hand.

*insert another wipe of the brow and another sigh*

Well, I decide to give the festivities another chance - this would be the FOURTH attempt.

these closing paragraphs are the epitome of my life right now, so be prepared

You know how things can't seem to get any worse? Yuh, well - we're in bed and he's awkward as ever ... and then asks me to tell him the truth. Did I sleep with this guy yesterday? For all my faults, I do have some restraint ... and besides, I wasn't in the mood the day before. I said, "absolutely not. I haven't been with anyone but you, SINCE you." That was true. But I'm not sure that last time we were together really counts. (If you didn't click on that link at the start of this post, then you should to understand what I mean right there)

some of you straight boys who read my blog may find the following a bit too much, but I really need you to stay the course so that the title of this post makes better sense

So, he really seemed to like that response. And he totally became a man. He pounced on me, laid me flat on my back and started whispering, "I wanna fuck you." That shit is HOT. I was actually really impressed. Totally, really impressed. I thought to myself:

Monday, August 11, 2008

I know that the old addage is that common sense isn't so common - but I can't get over how really fucking stupid some people are. And when I get to the point that I just can't stand the ridiculousness of these people ... I begin to believe wholeheartedly in Darwinism. For instance - who's the DUMB mother fucker that did THIS?!?!

I received this in an email - and it just made me furious. I can't explain why it made me mad, but it just did. I mean, don't get me wrong - I laughed at first but THEN ...

wwwaaaaiiiiitttttt aaaaaaa mmmmmiiiiinnnnuuuuuuttteeee!!!

some dumb mother fucker actually DID this

Oh Darwinism, please be true ... please be true ...

And then there's this photo, which you may have seen on Jaded's blog - I took it in Indianapolis, at the Credit Union. It was the terrible park job that got my attention, but the bumper sticker that got me to get my camera out.

Or how about the fact that I haven't seen THAT mother fucker since February and I just now figure out that his big feet done fucked up this pair of socks?!?!?

And then, my favorite - isn't it nice to know that if you need a package mailed REALLY fast that the post office has emergency vehicles?

Saturday, August 9, 2008

I'm at the office today. Yes, my sorry ass, no-life-havin', bored self got on the train early this afternoon and headed into downtown. When I got onto the train, I was surprised to see standing room only - but by the plethora of jerseys in the car, I knew there was a ballgame. So, I'd get a seat about half way to downtown. That's cool.

I stood at the back of the car, against the door and there sat a 10-year old boy with his dad, both lookin stadium-ready. They talked about random shit. Dad pointed out into the sky to point out a 747 flying overhead. The boy thought is was a triple-7, but dad pointed out that there were two engines on each wing which was a dead giveaway that it was a 747.

At one point, dad poked his son in the rib cage and his son fell out laughing onto his dad's lap, apparently very ticklish. And his father, wearing his baseball cap and shades (and flip-flops, because EVERYBODY here does that shit - but that's another post) actually kissed his son on his head. TWICE. IN PUBLIC!!! And I so missed my son right then. I wanted to squeeze him and squoosh him and hug him and kiss him and ....

ok, you get the idea. But in my defense my son is 4!

So, apparently, this is what White fathers do. By contrast, consider that on my way to the train station I stopped off at the diner to get a bite to eat. Let's face it - cooking for one is retarded. So, I had me two eggs, over easy with hash browns and bacon ... and an english muffin oozing and drippy with butter. It was just divine. (That's the gay way of saying it was fuckin good, yo)

On my way back to the train station - a Black woman was talking on her cell phone ... all loud and shit. I'm pretty sure she was African because there're a lot of African immigrants in my neighborhood - that and she was yammering some yiddish that the yids from yiddia don't even understand. But anyway, again - I digress.

Walking along side her - well almost, maybe three or four steps ahead as well - was a 4 to 5 year old girl, pushing a stroller with some younger version of her sittin therein. No conversation between the mother and children ... just momma and her yiddish into the cell phone and a child pushing a stroller with a half sad/half tired look on her face.

While I was waiting on the platform for the train, I sat next to this Black woman (this one NOT from Africa - well, not directly anyway) with her son. He asked her why the train that pulled into the station in the opposite direction was just sitting there with the doors open. She shrugged - he asked again. She snapped and said, "I dunno." Well, I knew - the train ahead of it had JUST left the station and on a Saturday this is most unusual. They're usually spread apart by 10 minutes or so on a Saturday. So, one could easily deduce that the first train was late, or this one was early - but either way, this one was sitting in the station to put some distance between itself and the train ahead of it. But momma to the 4 year old boy? She shrugged.

Seriously, people - can we pay attention to our children? Why minorities always gotta be ignoring the kids like they're some nusiance, some in the way-ness that we wish could just *poof* and be someone else's responsibility? And where are the damn fathers?!?!? WHERE!

I'm tired of this bullshit - we have come too god damn far to be fathers who are absent. I exhonerate all the dads who WANT to be in their children's lives but deal with the crazy baby mommas who put entirely too much energy into making an ex- pay for shit. You women need to stop looking backwards and move forward to what life can offer you, not to what it didn't. But AGAIN - I digress. FUCK.

Absent fathers - I mean - where the fuck are we? There's a little boy out there who just wants to go to a ball game, who wants to talk about the world as he sees it, who wants you to tell him the difference between a 747 and a triple 7. And hell - maybe he knows you don't know the difference either and all he could use is simple smile, some eye contact and an I love you. Maybe there's a little girl who needs a daddy to treat her the way boys are supposed to treat girls so she knows to punch a nigga in the eye when he crosses lines. But, whatever - where are the parents of these minority children who want and need attention and directing towards positive things in life?

In jail (with Kwame)

Getting her nails done by Koreans

On the corner with some drink in a brown paper bag

Playing video games

On the phone wit' shequita about what rhonda did with malik

Or on the phone with Mercedes talkin about what Carmensita did with Jose

Gettin a tatoo

Gettin a fade, or extensions or her hair blown out

Watchin Maury

Slavin over a hot stove so Paco don't beat her for not doing it again

But we're not on a train pointing at a 747 talking about, "I'm a take you in a ride in one of those one day."

We're not taking our daughters out on their first dates to show them the ropes so that they understand that they don't have to put out just because a nigga bought you a steak.

In silent absentia, we're teaching our kids that they're not worth our time ... and that they need to find attention and affection and love wherever the fuck they can find it.

Friday, August 8, 2008

Kwame Kilpatrick - you is a dumb mother fucker. I mean, DUMB. Real mother fucking dumb mother fucker. That's what you are. And I have many, many, MANY reasons why.

First of all - this here mugshot got you with one eye all hard core and the other eye all stunned and shit. As if you were above going to jail. It's not like you're a white man, in the white house or anything. Dumb, dumb, DUMB mother fucker.

And please allow me to list just a FEW of the reasons why I believe you is a dumb mother fucker:

You had an affair while in office (Didn't the whole cigar in the White House thing mean anything to you? Senator Edwards, notwithstanding - I'm a get on him next - it's not something the proverbial "they" were about to let a Black man get away with! Seriously, how long have you been Black?)

You had said affair with someone you work with. DUUUUUDDDDEEEE, you *never* shit where you eat. NEVER. NEVER EVER EVER. For real, for real - name me ONE situation you know of where this worked out well ... go ahead, name ONE!

You used your work cell to send text messages back and forth with her, all lovey dovey and shit ... as if you weren't a public figure, with a phone paid for with tax dollars and the proverbial "they" (see parethetic notation to item 1 above) wouldn't snap their fingers in a minute to get the phone company to reliquish records. Did you really think that once you delete the text message out of your phone that those words sort of just flutter away into some e-abyss somewhere?!?

You lied under oath. OMG! At this point in the game, take your defeat like a man. If you already knew you were going to court, as most people who are put under oath do, it was time to tell your wife what you did and get on the stand and let it all ride. In case you didn't know, Mr. Mayor ... when you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing BUT the truth ... you can't lie.

You assaulted the officer who came to visit your friend to SERVE HIM A WARRANT! Let's think about this. 1) Officer of the law. 2) Carrying a Warrant, or supeona, or whatever the fuck he had. 3) Black man assaults officer with warrant. In this three step process, can you tell which step poses a problem?

My one and final issue here is this ... you are a Black man that does NOT need to be holding a public office. I pray to God that you have some money stashed away, because I really don't want to see you filling my kids' waffle cone with soft serve ... but you cannot, MUST not be in office.

ESPECIALLY NOW!!!!!!!!!!!

NOW, AS IN AMIDST THE HISTORICAL RACE FOR PRESIDENT!!!!!!!!!!

Isn't this all the fuck we need? For white America to see a Black man in office, actin' a fool, commiting purjury, skipping the country while out on bond, cheating on his wife, and assaulting white police officers ....

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

I would like to play a little game. I don’t have the largest blog readership, but I do wonder what you all think – so comment away, but only if you’ve never met me in person.

Having read my blog so far – tell me, what do you think JACK looks like? What mannerisms does he have? How does he dress? Do you think he has any piercings or tats? Which ones and where? What color hair do I have? Eyes? How do I sit …do I cry easily? You know – just have at it.

I’m looking forward to read the comments from the brave souls who accept this challenge.

Friday, August 1, 2008

For the longest time, I've claimed to be Black. It's my own terminology and definitely a JACKism. And I thought I would share a thought or two that ran through my mind since the last time I uttered these words.

An injection of Black doesn't automatically make you Black by Injection. I mean, it just doesn't. I've seen many a white gurl turning on the attitude and the turning up the volume and trying to be all hard because they fucked a Black dude ... and you can just SEE that they're trying. TRAH-RYYYYY-IIINNNNGGG. It comes across as racist rubbish, as if she can see how Black acts and emulate it ... as if it Black were an angora sweater you put on when you want to be all fancy and shit. Well, it's not. It simply is not.

I feel it's all about acceptance. I really have no qualms about walking in any neighborhood whatsoever. You know, one time I was stranded in Birmingham, Alabama (I curse Delta to this very day!) and was at the hotel bar. I needed cigarettes and asked the bartender where the nearest gas station was. He told me and it was a long ways, according to his "I drive everywhere I go" sense of distance, but I said I could totally walk it. He said he would be happy to drive me. So, he actually drove me. He was a little "Vinny" looking mother fucker with a high pitched voice and I almost died when this little dude pulled up in his Mazda Miata. Oh, what a sight. Well, I got in it and he proceeded to explain to me that he wanted to drive me because I would have had to walk through "the Black neighborhood."

I was mad on two fronts.

Who the fuck did he think he was projecting his racism on me! That shit pissed me off. As if that because I have an olive skin tone that means that I should automatically be afriad of Blacks. Fuck him!

You mean I coulda met me a brutha on the way to the gas station?!? And now I'm stuck in this little-man-syndrome of a car with VINNY?!?! AHHHHHHHH MMMMMMANNNNN.

So we got to the gas station and there they were! MY PEOPLE!!! Vinny walked in with me - I think he thought he was trying to protect me. And you know what? He made me feel less safe. That little mother fucker following me everywhere really made me feel like an eyesore. Nigga, I was fittin in just fine until you became my gas station shadow! I stalled, hoping the Miata would be on concrete blocks without tires by the time we got out there. But no - nobody fucked with his car. (It wasn't a Latino neighborhood after all)

But, back to my point. Black is not an angora sweater. (And, yes - I *had* to pick angora. I'm fucking GAY!). So, to all those who think it is: you totally look whack and no one really respects you. You either got the swagger or you don't. So, perhaps 'Black by Injection' is a misnomer. But I like it anyway.

But back to it being about acceptance. In my experience, the Black culture is the most accepting on the entire planet - for all the shit you can say about it (whether from within it or without it) I have got to say that I personally feel embraced by the culture. And with EVERY interracial couple I know ... EVERY LAST GODDAM ONE ... if there's one side of the family that's less accepting, it's the one that isn't Black.

Now about the term Black - some people prefer African American, and if that's you - don't put me on blast, please. The official PC term is Black (capitalized B) as defined by the American Psychological Association and so that's what I go with. I have to write all my damn school papers in APA style and so it just stuck. And if you're part of the Black co-culture that prefers the term African Ameripean - again, don't put me on blast. I know you exist and I know your opinions exist ... I just follow the rules I'm asked to follow by academia so I can get my damn Masters degree already

Whatever - I feel like I'm rambling now. Suffice it to say, I wear Black well and I don't mean it like I'm wearing rabbit. I mean that I am totally Black, by injection.

JACK on Twitter

I was on twitter - and now I'm not. The nostalgia wore off in less than a month. It's just something else to do, another account to take care of, another password to remember. And SOME of you mother fuckers tweet like it's court ordered service - I can't be bothered with keeping up with how many of you took the public bus instead of the train or how your conversation went with the hot dog vendor. In 140 words or less: JACK don't like no twitter.